


a funeral pyre for hephaestus

by blackbird



Category: Crimson Peak (2015)
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 04:49:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5443904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackbird/pseuds/blackbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Return to Allerdale Hall. Release us."</i>
</p><p>Nine years late, Edith returns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a funeral pyre for hephaestus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [calliopes_pen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/calliopes_pen/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, calliopes_pen! 
> 
> This veered into the realm of the gothic melodrama, which seemed highly appropriate, considering the source material.
> 
> Many, many thanks to M and S for their betaing and soundboarding skills.

There was an incessant _drip-drip-drip_ coming from the sink in the kitchen. Edith set aside her books and papers and stopped to stoke the fire before she went to see to it. In a city the size of London, one would think a reliable handyman would be easy to find. But no matter how many times the faucets were tightened, a week later, they were leaking again. 

Skirting past the cold spot in the front hall - it was always iciest in February and March - she was glad for her slippers. The house was modest, much smaller than the house she grew up in, but it was in Chelsea. Edith found she was far more comfortable in the company of painters, radicals, poets, and bohemians these days anyhow. They didn't seem to mind that she had visitors at all hours of the day and night.

There was a small toolbox in the pantry. It had belonged to her father, one of the few things left of his that had made it to England . She found the wrench, rolled up the sleeves of her dressing gown, and put her weight behind it as she twisted the nut back. At last, the dripping stopped. She smiled, quite pleased with herself. 

"Now, let's see if you've held." There was a thump and a rattle as the pipes came to life. But the water that spat out was a bright ruby red.

Edith felt her throat constrict. Her fingers went slack and the wrench crashed to the kitchen floor. Dissonant chords rang in her ears. There was abrupt, searing pain in her leg and she stumbled, catching the edge of the counter to keep from falling onto the floor. 

_God, not here, please,_ she thought, _Lucille._

And as suddenly as it occurred, it stopped. The water ran clear. Edith sucked in few deep breaths, trying to slow the pounding of her heart. She was all right, she was home, she was safe.

There was a muffled thump above her head. She turned the faucet off, picked up the wrench, and carefully made her way up the stairs. The door to her own bedroom was standing open, just as she had left it earlier that evening, preferring to write in the front parlor where she had a comfortable chair and stoked fire. 

Light was glowing from the room at the end of the hall. Stepping softly, she opened the door.

A little boy sat at the desk. His head was bent over a sheet of paper and there was a pencil clutched in his hand. His pink tongue was sticking out of the side of his mouth and his dark curly hair was a mess, as if he'd been tugging at it.

"Carter Cushing Sharpe," she said, "you were meant to be asleep hours ago."

"Mama," he cried, jumping up and running toward her. She managed to drop her makeshift weapon in the hall just before she caught him in her arms. "Mama, I've seen a spirit. You and Uncle Alan said I might someday and I have, I finally have!"

His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were sparkling. A wave of love rushed over her. He was truly a miracle. Carter's arms wrapped around her neck as she groaned under his weight. In the past year, he'd grown two inches and gained weight. Edith couldn't begin to admit her relief at it - he had been such a small, sickly baby and despite Alan's assurances that he was healthy, she couldn't help but worry for him. Soon, he would be too heavy for her to carry.

"Calm down, my love," she said. "You must have had a dream."

"No, Mama," he insisted, wiggling until she let him down. "It couldn't have been a dream, I wasn't sleeping!" She followed him to his bed, where she saw his coloring pages and charcoals poorly hidden under the pillow. He got into bed and pulled up the blankets. 

"I wanted to finish the picture for tomorrow, so I was still awake. I was sitting here, just like this when I heard a noise." He gave her a guilty look. "I thought you had come to check on me. But it wasn't you - it was a man."

Carter didn't look frightened, nothing at all like how Edith imagined she must have looked the first time her mother, draped in all in black, came slithering into her room.

"What did this man look like?"

"He was tall and very grey. His hair was curly, like mine, and he looked so sad. The same way you look sad sometimes, Mama."

She curled her fingers around his tiny hand. "Did he try to reach out to you?"

Carter shook his head. "I think he wanted to, but he stayed near the door. But he said that I needed to give you a message. Look, I wrote it down to make sure I remembered." He scrambled back out of bed and brought back the scrap of paper from his desk. "What's Al-a-dale Hall, Mama?"

In Carter's untidy writing, she read the message.

"Return to Allerdale Hall. Release us."

**

"Absolutely not. This is madness."

Edith sipped her tea and waited for him to stop ranting and pacing. He'd been going on for ten solid minutes. That was a record, she was sure.

"You cannot go back to that place, Edith. You can't even be sure the house hasn't already sunken into the ground. And not to mention that there's at least one very vengeful spirit who would be more than happy to cause you fatal harm." He pulled out another book and dropped it on the table in front of her. "We can send someone, a medium that's more experienced with the occult."

Alan's home, six streets away from her own, was a bit larger than hers and in more fashionable Kensington. His practice, moved over from Buffalo after they had both recovered, was at the end of the high street. Of course, being a respectable doctor helped people take his talk of Spiritualism far more seriously than they ever took Edith's. But she'd learned to live with it.

"Alan, please. We both know that it has to be me. There's no reason Thomas would have manifested after all this time if just anyone could perform this act."

He dropped heavily into the chair across from her. "Edith, I - I cannot go back there. That house, it still haunts my dreams."

It was a quiet confession and one that did not surprise her. As much as she knew that Alan loved her and loved her son, she knew that he was unnerved by how much Carter was like his father in both his looks and his manner. Carter could sit quietly for hours drawing and building, even in the happy chaos of the McMichael house. 

It had taken that first year after Alan had come for her for him to realize and truly understand that Edith's feelings for him would never extend beyond the deep affections of friendship. She was honest with him and even though it had been painful for both of them, it was also freeing. Without her father or any other family, she saw Alan not only as her most trusted friend, but her brother.

It also meant that Alan had been able to find the true love of his life, Nora. She was an artist who taught lessons out of their home. He also had been blessed with two little girls, both of whom adored their Aunt Edith and Carter.

"Will you take care of Carter for me while I'm away? I would feel better if he was here with all of you," she asked. She did not, could not voice her fear that something terrible might befall her on her return to Crimson Peak. But Alan understood her nonetheless.

"As if he were my own, Edith," he said, covering her hands with his. "Will you need help gathering….supplies?"

She shook her head. "There's a woman, down in Southbank. She should be able to get me what I need."

"Be careful, Edith. If there were ever a malevolent spirit hunting you, it would be Lucille Sharpe."

**

She'd written ahead, so when her coach arrived at the depot in town, old Billy and his grandson, Matthew, were there to meet her.

"Milady," Billy said, offering her his hand. His hair was almost completely white now. "We were a bit surprised to get your letter."

"Of that, I have no doubt." The town had grown some in the last nine years. There was a general store across from the depot and a small pub with an inn attached. That's where she'd be spending the night. No amount of protection charms in the known world would convince her to make the trip to Allerdale Hall in the dark.

She took only a leather bag, just slightly larger than the one Alan favored when he visited his patients, in her hand.

"I'm planning on leaving at first light. It's hardly worth dragging everything across the street," she said to Matthew, who nodded. He would be the one taking her to the house.

Billy smiled at her. "The boy and I, we've been taking good care of the graves, just as you asked. Had to run a few folks off that were poking around the place a couple of years ago."

"Thank you for that. With the house and the mines beneath it in such disrepair, I'd hate for someone to get hurt." 

Edith thought it was far more likely that any trespassers would be dealt with by Lucille than would meet with a genuine accident, but Alan had reminded her on many occasions that it was unladylike to hedge her bets.

He left her at the door of the pub with a nod and a tip of his hat. It was busy enough inside that her presence was noticed but not remarked upon. She knew several of the faces from her convalescence before she was strong enough to travel to London. Her fingers traced over the thin scar on her cheekbone.

"Lady Sharpe?" A woman appeared at her side. "Your room is ready, if you'd like."

"Yes, thank you," Edith replied, following her up a narrow set of stairs. The room was small, but clean and there was a fire burning. From the window, she could see the outline of Allerdale Hall in the distance. "Would you mind sending up some hot tea?"

"Of course, ma'am," she said, closing the door behind her.

Edith took off her travelling cloak and boots and dragged the armchair as close to the fire as she could manage. She should take advantage of this time to work on the draft of her most recent novel or answer the correspondence she'd brought with her, but she couldn't drag her mind away from Thomas.

It had taken time to truly forgive him for what he'd done to her, how he had deceived her, plotted against her - no matter how passive his role. Having Carter made her realize that she must find some way to love Thomas again. She could not allow regret to poison her heart. That poison would find its way to her son and she would not allow the madness of the Sharpes to be passed down to him.

Letting her eyes drift closed, she let her mind wander to those days before she and Thomas arrived at Allerdale Hall. The long afternoons in their berth on the ship, reading and talking. Walking down the cobblestone streets in London, huddled under a single umbrella. God, how she regretted ever letting him get back on that train north to Cumberland. If only she'd been able to convince him - 

No. No, that line of thought would not do her any good. Thomas' fate had been sealed long before they had ever met. Blaming herself wouldn't change anything.

After tea and supper, she wrote until her fingers cramped and her sight was blurred. Alan would have scolded her for it, but she knew nothing but utter exhaustion could help her spinning mind. She climbed into the lumpy bed, turned her back to the window, and spared a thought for Carter before falling into a dreamless sleep.

**

The sun was hardly higher than the horizon when she arrived at the house. Matthew left the cart and horse on the far side of Thomas' machine, now rusted from weather and disuse. There was enough distance from the house that the horse would not spook immediately.

"Are you sure you'll be all right?" Billy asked her, eyes cutting to the creaking house. "Never know what kind of beasties might have nested in there."

"I'll be fine. You and Matthew head back down the hill and I should be done long before night falls," she assured him, adjusting the scarf she'd tied around her hair. 

"Just what do you plan on doing in there, Miss? Can't be much left to take," Matthew asked, grasping his grandfather's arm.

"I'm searching for a few family heirlooms."

"And then?"

Edith smiled. "And then I'm going to burn the bloody place to the ground."

Turning sharply on her heel, she heard Billy's laughter as she dragged the first sack of salt from the back of the coach. Carefully, she slit open the corner with her penknife and began to pour the salt in a circle. It took three sacks to finish the entire thing and she was glad she'd worn a plain muslin skirt, the kind Nora wore when she was painting. After that, she added a thin ring of fine sand over the salt, just as she was instructed. 

Slinging the strap of the bag she'd brought over her head, she stepped carefully over the salt and made her way to the front entrance. Oddly, the house didn't seem to be in a state of much more disrepair than when she saw it last. The steps were stained with patches of rusty red that could be blood or clay - the difference was indistinguishable. But the moment she stepped into the front hall, the sound of a piano filled the air.

"Hello there," she said softly, ignoring the parlour for now to climb the stairs. Averting her eyes from the doorway to Lucille's rooms, she went into her former bedroom. Other than a thick coating of dust, it was untouched.

Her trunks were still at the foot of the bed. An eclipse of moths fluttered out when she opened the first one. The clothes hardly mattered, but she dug her hands underneath them and found the wooden box that she had brought from Buffalo. Her father had made it for her and it was filled with letters that belonged to her parents, her mother's jewelry, and a hundred little trinkets from her childhood that she imagined had been lost forever. Edith tucked it into her bag and left the rest.

In the attic, the half assembled figures sat like sentinels. She swayed with the force of her unexpected memory of the heat of Thomas' mouth, the press of his body against hers, his fingers on her cheek. It was so strong, almost as if it were happening all over again.

"Are you there?"

In front of her, she watched the shadows and dust take shape, sucking the light from the room inward. Thomas was there, filmy and grey as if he'd walked through a field of ash. Edith took an involuntary step forward, her hand outstretched toward his. But her touch was met with only with icy air.

"I loved you," he said in a ragged, distorted voice. "I'm sorry."

"I know," she answered, "I've forgiven you."

His face twisted into a smile. Longing, painful as a knife, lodged in her chest. Not for the first time, she cursed at the memory of Lucille, the way she had manipulated them both, how her madness and rage damned Thomas to this place. 

"You've seen him, Carter," she said. "Our son."

Thomas nodded but didn't speak again.

"He should have something of his father's, don't you think?"

He drifted, moving as gracefully as he had all those years ago when he waltzed her around Mrs. McMichael's, toward the work table in the back of the room. It was still littered with half built machines and bits of wood for carving. Thomas concentrated and a small drawer slid partway out. Edith opened it the rest of the way and found a leather bound journal. It was filled with designs and plans, bits of writing, even an odd sketch or two. And in the back was a portrait of the two of them.

"I thought you'd lost this," she murmured.

The photograph had been taken their second night on the boat to England. The captain had discovered they were newlyweds and insisted they take a portrait as a belated gift. Even though she hadn't recovered from losing her father, she remembered feeling radiant and entirely in love.

When she turned her head, Thomas was close, close enough that if he were flesh and bone, she could kiss him.

There was a crash from downstairs and the horrifying, dissonant chords echoed, rattling the walls. Lucille was getting restless. She didn't have much more time.

"You know what I'm going to do?"

"Yes," he answered. "Thank you."

Slipping the journal and the photo in with her box, she took out one of the small round packets out of her satchel. Edith hadn't asked what was inside of the packets, only if they would give her enough time to get out of the house once they were lit. She dropped one in the doorway of the attic and looked up one final time at Thomas before she struck the match.

"Goodbye, Thomas."

She lit another packet and tossed it into her bedroom, watching as it caught the ancient bedclothes. There were two for Lucille's rooms, which stank of decay and death. Edith dropped one, two, three down the elevator shaft. The upper floors were beginning to burn and the smoke made her eyes water. She knocked over old oil lamps and lit those too as the rage of what had been done to her clawed its way to the surface.

When she got to the main floor, she went into the parlor and tore down the portrait of Thomas and Lucille's mother. Cracking the ancient frame, the canvas split and Edith stuffed the broken pieces into the fireplace. She brought out two more packets and tucked them into the body of Lucille's beloved piano. A deep sense of satisfaction washed over her as they caught and began to crackle.

There was an ear splitting screech before Lucille appeared, her long white gown billowing around her form. Edith was afraid of her, but she couldn't give into it, not when she was so close to finishing this, once and for all.

The right side of Lucille's head was caved in and the spectral trails made her look like a painting of Medusa she'd seen in a gallery. The painting had been atrocious and to her surprise, Edith started to laugh. She laughed and laughed until tears ran down her face.

"Youuuuuuuuuu," Lucille cried, swooping down at her, but Edith ducked and ran for the door, still giggling. Their chase had not been nearly as merry the last time. She lit the last packet and dropped into the dead, brown grass. The air behind her shifted and the felt frigid fingers grasp at the back of her neck before she leapt over the salt line.

Lucille was stuck, pounding and flailing at the air just like her beloved moths had, trapped in a jar. Her mouth was twisted in livid, silent scream, eyes bulging. The flames had spread and, hovering amongst them, Lucille was an aberration that needed to be dealt with for once and for all.

Edith's leg ached, her cheek stung, and her hands shook, but she had to finish.

Pouring a palmful of salt into her hand, she threw it into the flames.

"I release you, Thomas Sharpe. May your wandering soul find peace." 

The fire flared blue and Lucille hunched in on herself as if she had been struck. 

"I cast you out, Lucille Sharpe. I expel you from this realm, never to return again," Edith said, tossing another handful of salt toward the fire.

There was a pop, like the sound of a champagne cork, and Edith watched as the ghostly form of Lucille shattered as if she were made of glass. There was a flare of black, oily smoke and she was gone.

Edith stood and watched the house collapse in on itself. The circle kept the flames from spreading and once she was satisfied the rest of the property was in no danger of burning, she untied the horse and drove the cart back toward town.

She did not look back at the embers of Allerdale Hall, now a black smudge on Crimson Peak.


End file.
